


Bête Noire et Belle

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Bickering, Intrigue, Multi, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-08-15 06:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8045866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: Being an account of primarily one son of Haillenarte, his adventures and consorting with a divers medley of Monsters, their intrigues, quarrels, and conspiracy, and its effect upon the people and society of Ishgard and surrounds, related in a manner most cunning and diverting, be-checkered with many instances of romance and scenes of adventure and fantastical mystery, for the amusement and interest of readers, dreamers, monsters, &c. 
(explicit rating currently for later chapters, tags are a baffling kaleidoscope that will be updated as chapters are posted)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What happens if you literalize the metaphor and re-imagine Ishgard's monstrous and predatory ruling class as actual predatory monsters?

 

On a little bedside table, refinished to hide its age, there was a book. It was old and worn—not as old as the little table it rested on, but looking much more so: for the table was a fine work from a great-grandsire’s age, kept well and cared for, but the book was far cheaper, and anyhow had not been thought worth preserving the way a good heirloom was, containing as it did only fairy stories and pictures for children. Children, not being a group known for appreciating the fragility of books, had subsequently read it, studied the pictures, used it as a doorstop, to add ilms to a stool, spilled their milk tea on its cover and dropped sticky chocolate crumbs between its pages. And so any timelessness of content did not spare this book the ravages of time, and indeed it only owed its continued existence to the favoritism of one child in particular. That child, though, was now grown, and thus his old book no longer shared space with toy soldiers and cotton-stuffed goats and cows.

Instead, it now laid beneath a book explaining the principles of forestry, and another on the history of the Sororal Order of the Reformers of Vice into Virtue, and any number of loose-leaf journals collecting income and expenditures of an assortment of holdings (though atop a volume, second in a series, outlining basic tactics and stratagems of mounted warfare). A drafting compass and a quill knife were its companions now, and but recently departed from the table was a neatly-penned letter admonishing its recipient (one “E. F.”) for his failure to respect his tutor by paying him attention and failure to respect one “dear L.” by averting attention, signed “F. H.” Many letters came from that little table and out to the rest of the walled city, even—in recent days—written on behalf of a man not him and for the favor of yet another, sealed with red wax pressed with a borrowed rose signet. But the book of fairy stories stayed there, out of the damp and the cold. And perhaps it was a bit ironic—the book containing the first glimpse its owner ever had of the boreal forest beyond the safety of the city gates would never itself see beyond those gates—but it was nonetheless a state of affairs with which Joacin Charlemend Francel de Haillenarte was content. There was much to fear amid the towering pines and craggy peaks of Coerthas, and neither children nor their toys ought to venture out into the demesne of beasts and monsters made of flesh and blood, not paper and ink.

 

* * *

 

_Here follows an Account of the Law, Being the Wisdom of our Forefathers and worthy of Understanding:_

_First, the Laws of Men shall apply to all Monsters who speak and understand yet commit Violence against Men and their Children_.

(From a spiderweb of chains hangs one near-cocooned in them, his eight hindlimbs tapping the links and plucking rhythms to pass the time—long ago he determined that he couldn’t reach the walls of his cell no matter how he stretched those legs. It’s a spacious one, near luxurious in dimensions—but no other formulation could either keep him contained or keep him unable to lash out with fire, and only the briefest interview with the asylum-master provided satisfactory testimony that there was no further adverse effect on his brain possible from spending the rest of his life hanging upside down. His wardens, though… they disagree).

 

_Monsters who follow the Mountain Way shall be entitled to enact that Justice on Men who hunt them and their Children_.

(The blond was untrustworthy. If Jantellot was sure of nothing else, he was sure of that: too delicate to be the hardened hunter he was touted as, too unknown and unfamiliar to be the sort of well-heeled gentleman that his poise and grace and noted lack of scarring would indicate him to be. But Dominiac was adamant about taking him along. “I promise you, I’ve seen what he can do,” he said. “He’s quiet, he’s discreet,” he said. And, most importantly, “Besides, you could hardly take an honest man on a poaching venture, now, could you?” he’d said. Ultimately, Dominiac had won out, and his golden boy joined the hunt with a minimum of fuss, posing only a few cryptic questions before they were underway.

Which, really, Jantellot would reflect later (whilst hiding in a bog), should have been his first clue that once the sphinx den had been identified and the traps laid out, the blond swordsman would chuff and growl and shake out his mane and turn on them.)

 

_The Laws of Men shall apply to all Monsters who speak and understand yet commit Robbery and Trespassing and other Violence against the Property of Men and their Children._

(It didn’t come as a huge surprise to Father Saturnois that a raven was responsible for recent missing trinkets—indeed, considering how vehement some of his fellows had been in castigating their commoner students out of suspicion, it came as a relief. Besides, the trinkets hadn’t been _terribly_ valuable—astrometer pieces, magnifying lenses, little clockwork tools—just terribly shiny. So when his trap had worked, and he’d entered the scholasticate halls to find a particularly huge raven ensnared in it, he’d chosen to use it as a teaching moment for his students, and kept the bird in a cage on prominent display in his classroom.

Two days later, he was receiving a young man who sought admittance as a student right away and was prepared to argue his case for a mid-term entry—and surely he was bright enough, if a bit odd (scarred face, overtalkative, and a quizzical manner). Even so, as Saturnois patiently explained, he could not make the decision on his own, right then, but he _could_ draft the recommending letters and prepare some paperwork. And as he was getting a new inkwell—he heard the jangling of birdcage wires, and a voice he’d never heard before croaking about “the indignity of it all”—and by the time he’d hurried back to his classroom, the windows were open and two winged silhouettes were vanishing into the sky.)

 

_Monsters who follow the Mountain Way shall be entitled to enact that Justice on Men who rob them and their Children._

(“This is ludicrous,” groused Roiteloin, trudging along the path, holding the reins to guide the bird drawing their cart. “Full grown man, splits logs faster’n anyone I’ve ever seen—scared of a few little stings.”

“I’m not scared,” the other lumberjack—Valeroyant—shot back. “I’m just prudent,” he said, adjusting the mesh around his hat (which was unfortunately prone to being shaken loose by the rattling of the cart).

“It’s not even the tree the main nest is in! Just a couple nearby. ‘Fore the bees chew up that good cedar and ruin it.” It was all well and good to have bee hives of a decent size—Roiteloin liked a good bruin-brewed mead as much as the next man—but he had to put his foot down on letting them nest in the finest trees and ruin their wood for it. Wasteful, uncivilized, _stupid_. “We might not even see anything.”

The grove in question was finally in view—as were the darting shadows of bees in the afternoon light. With one last reproachful look from Valeroyant, though, the two elezen were checking their tools and preparing their axes. It wasn’t long before the smell of cedar grew very strong, as they drew closer to bringing their first tree down—and an axe much, much larger than the ones they’d been using thudded into the earth between them. The creature that had thrown it stepped forth from the cover of the canopy—and though much of his aspect was that of a man, he still lumbered heavily, like a great blond bear, claws like nail spikes and too many sharp teeth in his mouth.

“Get out,” he growled, but Roiteloin and Valeroyant were already gone.)

 

_Escort shall be provided to any Monster entering the City or any Man venturing to the Ruin upon the Mount._

(The form and aspect of the mountain-dwellers, the beasts regnant, was a strange thing. Some changed their skin, and could look no different from a civilized man proper—or, no different from a dumb animal, should that be their will. Others wed both aspects—of men and of monsters—in their flesh at once. And this had always been the division, newly-knighted Lady Yloise thought: between those who changed, and those who combined. Which initially made this assignment seem a little silly—even though all knew the gesture of offered escort was about dignity and etiquette, the idea of a mere four knights escorting a horned coeurl (fulms taller and she couldn’t even imagine how many ponzes heavier, with a full rack of green horns she could have sworn had levin dancing between the prongs)—it was laughable. It would, at least, be less so when his aspect changed upon entry to the first watchtower… or, so she thought.

For when her captain turned to their “charge” and bid him change his skin—he shrunk, yes, legs became arms and white fur retreated in rippling waves from browner skin—but claws on fingers remained, and yellow eyes gleamed, and still he towered over them all, green horns rising from his head of green hair.

“All the way,” her captain prompted, after a moment.

“I did,” the monster said, tail swaying behind him.

Another moment, tangible silence starting to set Yloise’s hair on end. But her captain nodded (once, short and slight) and the gate opened, the portcullis rising and coming to a stop at around the coeurl-man’s hairline. He looked from them down to the knight-captain, with the sort of long blink Yloise had never seen on a man’s face, but recognized at once from the mousers she’d annoyed for amusement as a child. “All the way?”

“It is. You will have to bow your head,” was her captain’s reply.

And now Yloise was certain she hadn’t been imagining their charge’s affinity with the levin. Once more, the absurdity of four soldiers escorting… _this_ was filling her mind—but then, with a green whisker twitch, the coeurl-man acceded. Head lowered submissively, like a penitent, he stepped over the threshold, and four elezen breathed once more and followed.)

 

_The Places deemed Sacrosanct do not suffer the profaning Touch of the Others._

(In an age long past, there were more people in the Coerthan highlands and forests—this stretch of mountainous country was more hospitable, and more civilized. The relics of this littered the land: roads in disrepair, collapsed wells, unreadable signposts and arching doorways to nowhere, all far removed from the hamlets and villages that worked the land around the walled city. Even on the very peaks of the mountains, these could be found.

And even though not a one of their stones were still fit to be scavenged, still a man was known to ghost around them, between them, standing watch as though there were a great treasure to be guarded and not unusually durable rubble. Silent and slight and colorless as cornsilk, all the summer a man with a greatsword “tended” the remotest ruins, replaced in the winter by a ruffled griffin of the same qualities. If anyone has gone to ask him for a reason, not a one has yet returned with an answer.)

 

_A Union between the Children of Men and Monsters must never be compelled._

(“Ninette—dear, dear Ninette—I do think I am obliged to stop you.” The impish smile of the speaker (one Brigitte) outweighed the attempted sternness of her voice—as did the fact that she was still handing her daisies.

“Whatever for?” Ninette said to her lady-in-waiting, her own play at innocence far more convincing. “Is it a scandal now, to weave flowers? And this beast has such a lovely mane.” The beast in question snorted, but was otherwise still as Ninette wound the stem of this newest daisy into a braid. “I should think he likes it.”

“Well—I believe your father would object to you coming home with a new pet.” Brigitte said, stroking its pale side (a striking contrast to its long purple mane) and giggling when it lightly flicked her with its tail. Ninette laughed as well, this time plucking a violet to weave in. “And how _would_ you fit him in our little boat?”

Ninette heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Brigitte, he’s not a pet. Just a handsome horse for riding—“ Said horse nickered loudly at that word, and both women dissolved into laughter. Nudging at Ninette’s hands with its nose, it prompted for muzzle strokes and got them, then began to turn slowly, towards the edge of the lake.

“Oh—“ Brigitte hurriedly stepped back, so as not to have her feet stepped on. “Oh, now wait a moment—“ Her tone was decidedly less impish now, but Ninette didn’t seem to care, sauntering closer to the water’s edge with the horse. “Ninette!”

“It’s perfectly fine, dear,” Ninette said. “He’s a good horse.”

“Ninette, we’ve played long enough,” Brigitte said, her tone now as firm as it perhaps should have been at the start. She stood firm on the grassy slope, even as Ninette moved down the bank with her newfound “pet.” “Your father expects us for supper!” Now Brigitte’s voice was raised, growing more worried as her charge stepped to the water’s edge. “How am I to explain lost shoes, a ruined dress, and allowing you to catch a chill?”

At the very edge, Ninette stopped still, even as the horse strode calmly into the water. When she did not follow, it looked back for her, ears forward and deep blue eyes alert, the water smooth and even mirror-like around it. At last, Ninette huffed a sigh, and with the body language of a girl much younger than her twenty-one summers pouted and trudged her way back up the slopes. “Very _well_ ,” she said, taking her offered hat from a visibly relieved Brigitte.

“Suit yourself,” the kelpie said, with an arch shake of his mane, before dipping below the surface and vanishing without a ripple.)

 

_The Flesh of Men and their Children shall not feed any Monster of the Mountain Way._

(Throughout the realm, it seemed, every terrifying story of beasts in the wilderness, of ravenous, flesh-eating fiends, made sure to impress on the audience how _large_ they were. Sharks, lions, sandworms, bears—it was always, in every grim recollection, an exemplary specimen of its kind. Everywhere—except the northern reaches of Coerthas. There, when a _particularly_ towering creature appeared from the shadows, you stood a good chance of being able to talk with it, and reason with it. But there is no reasoning with a pack of dumb wolves. There is only running.

Michelaunt was a trapper in one of the denser stretches of woods, far from the regular (relative) security of civilization. He’d been returning home from a miserably cold and unfruitful checking of his snares when a miscalculation of the sturdiness of the river ice sent him into the water. And he was able to haul himself out, yes—he did so soaked to his skin and without pack or light, those having been washed away in the flow. Now, his trudging was slow and agonized and growing slower each time a gust of winter wind buffeted him. Shelter was far, but not impossibly far—and then, Michelaunt heard the wolves. Three shakily ambitious paces later, he fell, and despair kept him there.

The pack was on the fallen man in moments. Yes, his coat was thick and strong, yes, he’d curled to protect his face and belly. But they were stronger, and they were unfrozen, and they would not be denied for long. Winter was a lean time, and an easy meal couldn’t be turned down.

Through the sounds of light growls, snuffling and tearing and whimpers—a much deeper chuff came, and a louder crunching of snow and ice, crushed under a heavier tread. This was another wolf—but, judging by how the pack snarled at his presence, and crouched low at his advance, not one they particularly liked. It wasn’t long before one (ears flat against its skull and eyes wilder than all the others) broke and charged for him, lunging at his blind side—to no avail, knocked to the snow in a single motion. Twisting and scrabbling back to its feet, it ran back to the pack, the silver wolf snapping at its tail. And an easy meal couldn’t be turned down—but this meal was no longer easy. The pack scattered.

Left now to his own devices, this giant wolf turned his remaining golden eye to the elezen, and the blood staining the snow. With something almost like curiosity, he nudged him onto his back, studied him a moment, and bit down.)

 

_The sacred Hospitality of Men shall extend to all Monsters who speak and understand._

 

* * *

 

Early spring warmth (the comfort of which being something that mostly existed in the wistful imagination of Ishgardians, especially during a frigid pre-dawn or a sleety late afternoon) came slower and more uncertain this year, mostly serving to warm the earth and air just enough to add an extra helping of dampness to everything without properly thawing anything. Such had been the trend for most of Francel’s life, according to both the learned inside the city, who read the quicksilver thermometers at least three times daily, and the unlearned outside, who tapped the birch and maple trees and checked their buckets almost as often. As the warm seasons in Coerthas had never lasted long in the first place, this meant that the growing concerns, and efforts to address them, had also been a part of his life: as a man born to privilege, he had obligations—and as a fourth son, barely of age at nineteen summers, his were rather less momentous than his older brothers’. Smaller than they, and slender, Count Baurendouin had decided early to teach him less of lances and shields and more of proper learning, and the non-martial duties a lord had to his subjects.

Which was why he now stood to his seated father’s side, listening quietly and attentively (and with a minimum of fidgeting) as a small passel of representatives from the northernmost Haillenarte holdings (Ramswall, Lintelrose, and Dourwood House) presented the year’s figures—wealth in kind and in gil, expenditures and losses, things in need of replacement or repair, lease agreements, contract reviews, and it wasn’t even the first afternoon bell yet.

“Francel.” He started at his father’s voice, instinctively locking knees and pushing his shoulders further back. But the elder Haillenarte wasn’t chiding. “Go speak to that furrier.” Baurendouin pointed with quilltip at an older man lingering near the back—uncomfortable in a lord’s receiving room, probably uncomfortable indoors, full stop. In a soft voice, while his steward double-checked the villein’s arithmetic, the count continued, “I want to know what he thinks of the beasts’ behavior—if they should be more hungry and more of a threat to the travelers and livestock, after so cold a winter. And—if he has any chinchilla for your mother’s nameday.”

Nodding (for he recognized an easy errand to alleviate boredom when he was given one), Francel ducked out from behind the desk and approached the old furrier. Unaware of this development, he was himself trying to alleviate boredom, peering closely at the carved ornamentation of a bookshelf—startling back from it when Francel cleared his throat. “Oh—milo—young master, I didn’t mean—“

“It’s not that,” Francel said, hoping his own awkward smile might somehow dispel the furrier’s awkwardness. “As, uh—they will be busy with the ledgers for some time, my lord father wished to be sure the audience would not end before he could ask a question of you.”

The old man’s lips pursed in thoughtful surprise. “Didn’t think his lordship needed my advice personally. …Woulda dressed better if I did.” He smiled wryly, indicating his patched and shabby coat. “What does he need, now?”

Relieved, Francel plunged into the matter at hand. “The forest—the wilds, around our holdings—what make you of the beasts of late? My father worries if the sheer cold the past moons has killed them, or just made them hungrier and savager.” Though he kept his tone hopeful through to the end, the furrier’s vanishing smile and deepening frown was almost an answer in and of itself.

“Aye, the cold’s killed some—more than usual, I’d say—but it’s not diminished any danger. Our holdings—I’ve lost two pregnant ewes since the heavensturn, one I think to wolves, other was a yeti.” He shook his head, looking down in recollection. “They’re robbing my traps, too, or half of them are so starved their pelts just stretch over bone. You’re a young man, I know,” He said, raising his head to look Francel in the eye, “but I tell you, these winters aren’t at all right, and I’m not simply saying that because all old men say things used to be better. If it weren’t for the monster-lords, I don’t think any of us would’ve dared leave the fields this past winter.”

Francel, who had been doing his best to look appropriately grave but still encouraging, blinked in surprise at that. “Beasts-regnant? I didn’t know they’d been, uh—involved in this… There haven’t been many rescue petitions this year, I didn’t think.”

“They’ve been doing it on their own.” The furrier sounded almost as surprised to be saying that as Francel was to be hearing it. “One of the great wolfmen saved my son, two moons ago. As he told it, he was almost frozen to death and sure wolves would eat him, but this one were one of the ones bound by the law. He dragged him out of the storm, kept the wind from him—even bit him to keep him awake until us searching for him could find him. You know how it is—you fall asleep when it’s that cold, that’s the end for you.”

Francel had to remind himself that it would be below his station to gawp. “That is…” …not at all in accordance with how he remembered the mountain lords interpreting their laws and obligations.

The furrier was nodding vigorously, agreeing with Francel’s surprise. “They keep to themselves and we to us, excepting when we need something of each other, and that’s the best way for it to be. But…” He let out a sigh through his nose. “Even if it’s not how they normally act, it’s saved lives. I don’t understand, but I’m grateful all the same.” Sniffing, rubbing his nose on his sleeve, he then brightened his demeanor back to the way it had been at the start of this conversation. “So, that’s the state of it in our village, and I’ve not heard anything from the neighboring ones to indicate as it’s different there. Does that answer your lord father’s concerns, or does he need anything more?”

 “Thank you,” Francel said, though a bit distracted. “I—“

“Francel,” said his father, giving him an expectant look.

“Yes!—I, er… No, serrah,” he quickly turned back to the furrier, offering him a courteous little bow. “House Haillenarte thanks you for your assistance.” And as soon as it wouldn’t be rude rushing, he was back at his father’s side, feigning great interest in a record of court proceedings.

“Very good,” Baurendouin said, real warmth in his voice (the unglamorous obligations of nobility were still ones a wise lord, who had no wish to freeze or starve, took seriously). “How much for the chinchilla?”

“…oh. Erm, Father, I…”

 

* * *

 

“Father! _Father!_ ” Small fists beat furiously against the much larger, much stronger fist of the yeti. “Ste—Stephanivien! Aurvael! _Help!_ ” Fruitlessly, Francel tried to pry up the yeti’s claw from around his waist, only to be rewarded with a squeeze that left him gasping and crying anew from the pain. “ _Help!_ ”

His cries and screams were joined by the bleating of a ram, captive in the yeti’s other paw. _Good_ , he thought, _more noise! Yetis don’t kill until they’re home!_ When his breath came back enough, he twisted upwards again, trying again to somehow loose the monster’s grip on him. Kicking at its forelimb, Francel tried to twist its fingers, relying only on muffled touch to identify it—even if it were light enough out to see, terrified tears would have clouded his vision still. (Men don’t cry, men don’t cry, especially not for their mothers, and even if he at thirteen summers couldn’t manage the former he _could_ manage the latter). For all his efforts, though, all he got was a low, grumbling sound of annoyance, and a viciously disorienting shake.

Yetis didn’t kill until they were home, according to every gruesome hunter’s story he’d ever heard—small comfort, when for the dark of the night and the swinging upside-down and the trembling in panic and crying in terror, he had no idea where he was. The monster’s home could be malms away, for all he knew, or it could be mere yalms. Why, _why_ did he pick that bell of night to sneak out and see the aurora? Just as the beast was stealing from Lintelrose’s pens…

“Help! Help me, _someone!_ ” His voice was breaking and straining from more than just fear, and he gave up on words. Instead, he joined the ram in agonized bawls and bleats, as loud as his poor throat could manage.

So loudly, in fact, that he didn’t hear the approach of the second hunter until it was there. A terrific impact, like a _charge_ , from behind shocked through the yeti—and through it to Francel, enough to knock the wind out of him and send the yeti falling forwards. The shock of hitting the snow, followed by the scrambling experience of being held by something trying to push itself back to its feet again, left him dizzy and gasping. But the new appearance of red on white fur and snow—that he could make out.

Making a guttural rumble of pain, the yeti lurched upright again, turning to face whatever had dared attack it—only to be struck again, this time by a swipe up its chest that sent it staggering back. Another spray of blood hit the snow, a wave of steam rising from it—and behind it, Francel could finally glimpse what was attacking. It was—it had no wings, and two legs (blessed be, not a dragon, that’d make everything _worse_ ), but it was nowhere near broad enough to be another yeti, or even a bear, and anyhow bears didn’t have horns, or—

Howling in rage and pain, the yeti lunged forward to bludgeon its attacker with the arm holding the ram, only to howl all the harder when another swipe almost took that arm off.

—or carry axes.

It was as good as over, even Francel could see that: even if it escaped, it’d bleed out. Perhaps the yeti was, however dimly, aware of that too—perhaps it possessed enough awareness to decide if it died, it wouldn’t be alone. Faster than it had yet moved tonight, the yeti jerked Francel higher into the air—the boy screaming once again as teeth filled his vision. This was it, this was death—

—And from underneath him, a horrible and horribly loud wet _CRUNCH_ stopped everything. The iron-fingered grip on his waist slackened, he dropped the yalms into the snow, and right beside him fell the yeti’s body, a battleaxe sticking out of its ribs like a lumberjack’s axe sticking from a stump.

In silence, Francel tried to piece together what had happened, blinking to clear his vision. He was interrupted though, by a deep voice scoffing “Weak old bastard,” and another too-large hand pulling him out of the snow by his collar. “There. You’re rescued.”

Silently, the boy gazed up (and up, and up) at his apparent savior: A minotaur—or what would be a minotaur, if he didn’t have the face of a man— cloaked in pelts and old clothes and its own patchy winter coat, hooves caked in snow, bloody hands and bloody horns, looking profoundly unimpressed. “…Thank you. Ser,” Francel said at last—unsure of what else there was to be said.

Apparently, that was what the minotaur had been waiting for—with a dismissive snort, he turned away from Francel and towards the yeti’s other captive, prying open its fingers before rigor mortis could really sink in. The poor ram was still bleating, but much more weakly, and shaking visibly from its ordeal (distantly, Francel realized, so was he). The minotaur, however, seemed to care little for responsible animal care, jerking it free with a coarse laugh. “What a pathetic haul. This is far too skinny to be worth eating.”

Now that his life was no longer in danger—now that he was sure he’d live through the night—all the miseries that had been wiped by the attendant adrenaline were returning to Francel’s awareness. He was exhausted. He was freezing, his pajamas wet from melted snow and filthy from this ordeal. He ached all over, and the swinging around upside down had left him with a horrible, nauseated headache. He wanted a bath and a hot drink and warm, clean, dry clothes and to sleep for a week. Instead, he was outside in Halone-knew-where with none of those things and a smug minotaur insulting him and his family’s sheep. “It’s _not_ pathetic.”

The minotaur actually hefted the ram into the air (it bleated again in alarm, Francel hurrying towards it) and bobbed it up and down, gauging its weight, before letting it go again. “It’s more fluff than flesh. _Pathetic._ ” He repeated the word with more scornful emphasis, and Francel scowled up at him, a protective arm around the sheep’s neck.

“It’s a wool breed. It’s supposed to be like that. You’re not _supposed_ to eat it. …Ser.” He tacked on the honorific as an afterthought, as if it would actually make his obvious pique more palatable.

The minotaur raised one blond brow at that, and crouched down—not quite to Francel’s level, but close enough that the sharpness of his teeth was apparent to the elezen boy. “You’re an elezen twig. I’m a minotaur. Trust me, I know what I’m _supposed_ to eat.” His grin didn’t waver, but neither did Francel’s scowl.

“Francel! _Francel_!” The sound of Stephanivien’s voice made Francel start, and look back over his shoulder; his brother on his chocobo stood on a nearby hillock, relief visible in every line of his body and aspect of his face. “Praise to Halone—Father! I’ve found them! Over here!” Stephanivien called back over his own shoulder, waving; as he did, the minotaur stood from his crouch, pulling off one of the furs slung over his shoulders to drape over Francel. Prodding him towards his family, the minotaur followed behind him, now with his expression a sight more serious (and less sharp-toothed).

“Is he—“ Baurendouin cut himself off when he saw Francel walking towards him, pulling his new fur “cloak” close around his shoulders with one hand and the ram along by a fistful of its wool. Dismounting along with Stephanivien, he ran to his youngest son, hugging him more fiercely than Francel could ever remember. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?” He asked, pulling back to look Francel in the face (his eyes were red, and even as he spoke Francel watched them grow wet; he’d never known his father to weep before and the knowledge that he _could_ left him wrongfooted). Suddenly uncertain, Francel only nodded; apparently this was good enough for his father, who smiled and hugged him again.

“‘m fine,” he said into his father’s shoulder, and one extra squeeze later Francel was released and gently nudged into Stephanivien’s care. Stephanivien had another coat for him, and as he helped him into it, over his brother’s relieved chatter Francel could hear the start of the discussion between the count and the minotaur.

“Ser— _thank you_ , ser Grinnaux,” Baurendouin was saying. “My son owes you his life and we our happiness for your quick answer to our call.”

“We both agreed on how the land beyond the Ramswall would be kept,” the minotaur—Grinnaux—replied, his tone more casual. “And I’m always ready for a hunt.”

“Hunt—yes. The… carcass.” Baurendouin’s rising distaste was clear to Francel, even as Stephanivien began leading them towards his chocobo. “Shall we settle on the usual terms?”

“Just think, Francel—you’ll be inside Lintelrose Hall before dawn and back in bed. After Mother finishes fussing, at least,” Stephanivien said, stifling a yawn. “And maybe after the chirurgeons have made sure you’re not direly wounded. …She sent for a few, you know. Also a priest.”

“Not sure that’s good enough, considering,” Grinnaux’s drawling voice, being pitched for Baurendouin’s ears, was barely audible to Francel, and his head was growing so foggy with exhaustion that it was hard to concentrate on listening—but still, he paid close attention. “A good yeti pelt like that’s going to last you and yours a lot longer than the meat’ll last me…”

“Francel—let go of the sheep. My bird won’t bear all three of us.” Stephanivien was saying—Francel finally registered his older brother pulling gently at the fist he’d made in the ram’s wool; reluctantly, he released it. “It’ll be fine out here a bit longer. Father can bring him back.”

“Stephanivien,” Francel said, as he climbed onto the chocobo.

“Hm?”

“Tell Father he can’t have it. He can’t have the sheep.” Francel could barely keep his eyes open, the full effect of his ordeal finally hitting like a battering ram, but this point he wanted very clear.

“He ca—oh, you mean the minotaur?” Stephanivien asked, brow slightly knitted.

Francel nodded. “Father has to bring the sheep back.” He was wavering in the saddle, already slumping towards the chocobo’s neck.

“Very well,” Stephanivien said, though obviously confused. “I’ll tell Father not to bargain away the sheep.”

“Promise, right?” Francel murmured, eyes shutting as he began surrendering to sleep.

“Yes, yes, I promise…”

 

* * *

 

Nineteen summers was not _quite_ old enough for an Ishgardian son or daughter—even one with noble blood—to debut on the marriage market. Even though they still tended be promised off years ahead of their commonborn fellows (their bloodlines being assets far greater in value than most of the city’s stock), there was an unseemly quality associated with being too eager to see one’s child well-matched and well-wed, a sort of reek of desperation—a lack of confidence in quality of breeding, a rush to see the benefits of a good marriage. Put simply, it was rank climbing that offended the most ancient of the noble houses, and so they preferred to wait for an opportune moment to announce availability.

But that didn’t mean there was to be no window-shopping before the official opening for business.

“Surely my lord—mmf—surely my lord will need to retire soon,” said Crammevoix, pulling back to give Francel a breathless grin. “Yes?”

Francel let his head loll back against the wall, looking for cool stone to chill his blood. “The bell would suggest that,” he murmured, noncommittal.

Crammevoix took this as an invitation to kiss Francel’s throat, his thin beard and mustache bristling against his skin in a way that Francel would have to admit wasn’t actually unappealing. “Would you allow me the privilege of escort?” Francel started a bit, as Crammevoix nipped him cheekily. “Only that a spring moon’s nights are too few and too lovely to be squandered alone.”

As forward as he’d been advertised to be. And as handsome and charming, and as polite and discerning. And yet… “I should not. T’would not befit a seminarian of stature to linger after dark.” Francel offered Crammevoix an apologetic smile.

For a moment the disappointment was clear in Crammevoix’s eyes—but a blink later he had composed himself, stepping away from Francel that they both could straighten their clothes. “How fortunate for me, that someone so honest is looking after my reputation.” He was smiling, crooked but sincere, as he re-knotted his tie. “Halone knows if it were up to me to mind it, I’d not have one left at all!”

Retrieving his hat and replacing it on his head, Francel laughed softly at the joke. “You flatter me. You enjoy that, I’ve noticed.”

“Only as much as you do,” Crammevoix returned. “Shall we mark a date for more such teasing?”

“…Well,” Francel said, after a meaningful pause, “Well, if we don’t have an opportunity to speak after the sermons this Iceday, I will be surprised. You do attend regularly, yes?” As impolitic as their present circumstances were, the rules of polite society still applied—and when he’d reminded Crammevoix of his obligations twice after rejecting an offer once…

“I would be delighted to converse after,” Crammevoix said, straightening out his smile and removing any remaining mischievous kinks from his voice. “May I find you again in good health—but still, I maintain, don’t squander a night like this.” His voice was still warm, but he bowed courteously to Francel as a farewell instead of any gesture more intimate, and when he turned to leave he did not linger or look behind.

Haillenarte manor was not far from the site of their rendezvous, but still it took Francel almost a full bell to meander home. Maybe he was unconsciously taking Crammevoix’s words to heart—although the thoughts he’d been lost in whilst wandering were hardly the sort of spring fancies Crammevoix had been meaning. Instead he dwelled on how quickly he’d been able to quell what desire he’d been able to rouse that evening—how simple and silly it felt to turn him down, when he’d conducted himself with (Francel knew) exactly the candor and humor he’d asked for from the start.

It would be—he’d considered, as he strolled past lampposts and benches—much the same with a lady, probably. Undoubtedly possibilities of marriage would be an additional vexation, but still, when he imagined himself entertaining a woman of good birth and good prospects, it was with the same sort of distance, what stirrings he felt, easily calmed.

And yet…

The life of a monk or friar wasn’t for him, he knew—even if, as a fourth son, it would hardly be an uncommon or inauspicious choice. In fact, that same quality—that he _was_ a fourth son, and therefore an inheritance headache and unlikely to be burdened with any special obligation he did not take up on his own—was what made him sure he’d not terribly care for celibacy. For all his diligence at what he was allotted (more so than some other carefree, spendthrift second and third sons he could name)—he did like the _freedom_ within his grasp, if he should care to take it. Eldest son Stephanivien needed a good marriage. Aurvael not quite as pressingly, and Laniaitte spent her days trying to persuade their father she wasn’t suited to be another lord’s good marriage, bloodline and surname be damned. But he…

Francel’s looping and meandering path home took him to the back gates of the manor, not the front, where an evening’s delivery was happening: fresh night milk by the crate, for a high-household’s worth of hot teas, rich sauces, and good breakfasts for the coming week. It was two elezen unloading from the back of their wagon, and the driver leaning back as he waited for them to finish. And he… Francel hung back for a moment, to get a better look, half-hidden behind a corner as if it were a secret or shameful thing.

He would be tall, if he were standing—Francel doubted the top of his head would clear this man’s shoulders (and he was himself not _that_ short). And he was broad, and clearly strong, perhaps not quite like a knight was… but then, Francel supposed, he hadn’t been in the habit of furtively evaluating the figures of the knights dragoon and templar that he passed. (Maybe he should start). And but so, this driver was immense, but he still bore the proportions (the _correct_ proportions) of an elezen man proper, rather than any other race, with long limbs and lithe waist, and the fingers he held his pipe in still graceful, even if Francel could well imagine how rough his working life might have made them. His face, too—it was not difficult to find handsome elezen (at least, according to the remarks of those more traveled in the world than he), but even so there was something about the driver’s face. Perhaps it was the darker eyes that caught his notice, a russety brown instead of the more common icy Ishgardian blue—or his fuller lips, or a prominent long nose (of such prominence in fact, Francel might wonder if it ever got in the way while he smoked, or ate, or kissed).

While Francel studied him, the driver seemed to be content to relax with his pipe, humming halves and pieces of common tunes to himself as he did. He didn’t even notice Francel’s lurking in the shadow until he was refilling and relighting it—both men still a moment with the recognition of being watched. Francel, for his part, felt nervousness build—staring was rude and a good noble son isn’t rude, even if this was a person so lowly of station that perhaps those rules didn’t quite apply—but the driver didn’t seem offended. He didn’t… really seem anything at all, focusing on his smoking. But then—he took a deep breath, leaned towards where Francel was lingering, and blew out a trail of smoke, shaping it with those lips and even a bit with his tongue, and as Francel watched first a ring… then through the ring, a long shape, that—

“Haustefort!” Francel jumped in surprise as the other two deliverymen called out to their driver. “Get going already!” Haustefort laughed at Francel’s jump, and probably also at his bright red cheeks, and with one final lick of his lips he was urging the chocobo on. The moment was over, their wagon clattering down the lane to wherever the next delivery was, Francel only emerging from behind the corner slowly. His face still red, he hurried inside the manor and round corners to his room, as if there were something secret or shameful to hide.

 

* * *

 

Generally, even for the wealthy of Ishgard, breakfasts were a smaller affair (it was the evening meal that was largest and most elaborate), and this was true in the Haillenarte household as well. Especially now that all the count and countess’s children were grown, with their own tastes to follow, usually they were rarely even together—the Countess de Haillenarte increasingly preferred hers with tea and in bed; Laniaitte took it lightly, near dawn, so that digestion would not interfere with martial drilling; Stephanivien usually only emerged from the workshop long enough to grab a frypan-full of meats, eggs, tomatoes (for it was summer) and bread and take it right back in with him. So Francel was used to having the dining hall  to himself (or nearly so) by the time he rose in midmorning, coming down for his own meal, and in fact preferred it that way. It allowed him to sit with his own plate of eggs and bacon (and maybe a plum tart, and apricots in porridge, and syrup in his tea, without Aurvael’s pointedly raised eyebrows at such childish sweetness) and to think in silence. To nibble at a peach with cream and plan his studies and work for the day, to push a rolanberry into a soft-baked cheese and push it around his plate while considering whether or not he _actually_ wanted to tag along on whatever latest fancy had entered a friend’s head. In short: to brood.

So he was found that day by his father, as Baurendouin sat down with his own breakfast (a nutty croissant and royal eggs), Francel turning over with vague but dissatisfied interest both an invite to a tavern-crawl and a half-eaten muffin. “Good morning, Father,” Francel said, after a moment and a bit distantly (but—or at least he hoped—not _too_ rudely).

“Francel,” his father acknowledged, measuring cream into his coffee. After a sip, and a nod to himself… Baurendouin sat in stillness a bit longer, stirring the already-well-stirred coffee in much the same manner that his son next to him idly peeled the paper from his muffin. And then— “Francel. There is something I need to tell you.”

Francel quickly glanced to his father’s face—but he didn’t seem at all sad, or weighed down. Just… awkward. “What is it?”

“Your mother and I—“ he began, but apparently thought better of it. “You’ve not been well of late. Haven’t you?”

Oh. So it was to be that kind of conversation. “I suppose I haven’t been,” Francel said, a bit quietly, internally wondering which specific thing had set off their concern.

“You’ve been eating poorly, talking less,” Baurendouin continued (Francel not sure if he was saying this for _his_ benefit, or for his own). “You’ve just… seemed unhappy. And we worried.”

Francel nodded along. It wasn’t like his father was wrong, even if he dearly hoped he wasn’t going to go in-depth into the topic. He had a decent ida of the root source of his recent melancholy, and it was… emphatically not something he needed his parents’ help with. (Their initial attempts when he was younger and even gawkier had been mortifying enough).

“So, your mother and I—“ Baurendouin’s voice was picking up confidence again—and this, apparently, was what he’d been planning to say before: “We’ve decided that less idle time, and more responsibility, more industry, will do you good.” Francel’s eyebrows were rising, but the count wasn’t finished yet. “Not make-work, but important work. You’ll do well at it, we’re certain—and by doing well, you’ll gain respect and esteem. Virtuous industry, befitting your station.” He nodded again, half to Francel and half to himself, as if confirming that yes, he had been right to think this a good idea.

“So… I take it I have received a promotion, of sorts?” Francel ventured, after a moment—if he was to be no longer an aide or page to his father, then…

“Yes. I’ve decided to name you lord of Lintelrose. You will take over the affairs of that estate and its surrounds. It’s not terribly troublesome land, at present—prosperous enough, thanks to those sheep, not prone to storms and little in the way of banditry and criminals.” He smiled warmly at Francel (who was blinking very rapidly, and who had unconsciously dropped the muffin onto his plate at ‘lord of Lintelrose’). “A good land for an entitlement.”

“Father—I don’t know what to say.” He had known that entry to real manhood would entail real titles, not just luggage to be read off in formal introductions, the same way he’d known that there was an ocean to the west and a desert to the south. It was distant and far-off, but now…

“After the first ledgers arrive, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Baurendouin said, his smile broadening. “I jest, there will be no surprises there. Likely your only headaches will be the beasts, and… well, the beast.”

“The beast,” Francel repeated, with an affirming nod (still rather on Cloud Nine within his own mind). “We share that territory with… which one, again?”

Before Baurendouin could speak, there was a sharp rap on the hall’s doorframe, and an unusually harried-looking manservant was addressing them. “My lords, I beg pardon for the intrusion, but your guest is growing… very restless, and requests audience immediately.”

The count’s brow knit in confusion. “What guest? I have no business today until afternoon bells—are you certain they’re not calling upon the countess?”

“Very certain!” The manservant burst out, with a horrified—then mortified—expression. “I—my apologies, my lord, I was out of turn. I beg your forgiveness. But—“ With obvious strain, he repeated, “Your guest requests an audience in the south parlor, immediately.”

Baurendouin didn’t speak—but his confused and alarmed expression as he stood was enough for the manservant, who ducked out of the room with Baurendouin following close behind—and at his heels was Francel, curious. True, this didn’t involve him, but unless he was _told_ to leave, well…

Outside the door to the south parlor, the manservant stopped, bowed to Baurendouin with the cursory “My lord,” and then opened the door and… there was no other way to describe it, Francel thought, but that he _fled_. Meanwhile, Baurendouin stepped inside, and was greeted (“Count Baurendouin, at last!”) by a deep voice Francel recognized. Jaw dropping, he leaned into the doorway—and, yes, _there he was_.

Inside his mother’s favorite parlor—the one with furniture upholstered in light blue and trimmed with ivory, with silver-laced porcelain and a lush rug—was the very same massive “minotaur” who’d saved his life six years ago. No blood this time, and he looked significantly more civilized—though that might simply have been that it was too warm to wear furs, leaving him just in old shirtsleeves (no vest, no coat) and poorly-fitting trousers. But even so, Francel couldn’t forget that smug face. He barely fit in the room—seated on a couch (he’d likely as not break a chair), the marks his muddy hooves had left in the rug very clear, and carefully holding the teapot in one hand (with a very suspicious lack of teacups and _only_ those on the nearby table). As Francel watched, Grinnaux took a drink directly from the spout of the teapot, and put it down on the table with enough force to make Francel wince. “I know you said you’d see me at the gatehouse, and in the afternoon, but—well, I had other things to do.” He smiled. “And this was more convenient.”

Francel had a very good vantage point to watch his father steel himself—back straighter, shoulders back—before returning the greeting. “Ser Grinnaux. Of course, if you must change plans, then you must—but do remember to send word _first_.” He offered the minotaur his own smile, rather less easy-going. “Why, you might even get a proper reception next time.”

Once more Grinnaux drank directly from the teapot’s spout, not looking away from Baurendouin. “Could do with better h’ors d’oevres, yeah. Bigger portions, maybe.”

There was something under the surface of this conversation. Privately, Francel wondered what business a minotaur would even _have_ inside the city walls. And without an escort, at that… “But in any event,” Baurendouin said sharply, “if we must speak now, then so be it. Francel,” he said, looking over to where Francel was lingering, and indicating with a nod that he should step forwards, “this is Ser Grinnaux, the Bull. The Lintelrose holdings overlap heavily with his own, er… land. Grinnaux, my son will be taking the mantle of Lord of Lintelrose. Therefore, you will address your grievances, requests, and service to him, from now on.”

Oh. … _Oh_ , Francel thought, in between silent glancing back and forth, between the minotaur and the count. So this was what he meant, about headaches.

For his part, Grinnaux had abruptly stopped smiling, and instead was giving Francel a very familiar unimpressed look. “We’ve met.”

“Then I shan’t trouble the two of you with further introduction,” his father said, turning to Francel and clasping his shoulder before whispering, “Your first assignment, master of Lintelrose: _get him out of here_. I’ll stall your mother as long as I can, but you know how she gets about this room.” Then, with a reassuring squeeze, he was gone, and Francel was alone, standing on the south parlor’s threshold, almost literally facing down a bull in a china shop.

“So,” Grinnaux said, eyeing Francel in an evaluating way. “I hope you aren’t expecting a bent knee. The accords don’t work that way.” He grinned, smugly. “I don’t work that way.”

Something flipping about on the couch caught Francel’s eye—after a moment he realized it was the minotaur’s tail. Were the monster-lords like cats or dogs, that their tails gave away their mood…? If so, what did the lashing mean? He rather doubted it was good cheer. “Certainly not,” Francel said, with a sort of brightness that he, deep in the pit of his stomach, did not actually feel. “I doubt you could do so in here without knocking something else over, anyhow.”

After the briefest (yet still significant) pause, Grinnaux laughed (and it might have been Francel’s imagination, but it seemed to set lampshades by him shaking). “Something _else_? Haillenarte, I would almost think you thought me a bad guest.”

“Perhaps we’ve merely gotten off on the wrong foot—hoof,” Francel said, still feigning confidence. …But now that he thought about it… “If we could sit and pour the tea and chat, perhaps that could help us find common ground.” He very carefully kept his eyes on Grinnaux’s face and that bright smile fixed on his own face—and Grinnaux did the pointed look towards the table without teacups and then to a nearby wastebasket for him, anyhow.

“…I did say I had other things to do,” Grinnaux said at last, now wearing his own variation on Francel’s smile (with extra teeth). “Charming parlor.” He swept his hand across the cookie plate, taking the contents in one fistful, which he dumped into his mouth as he stood. Francel did his best not to wince at the creaking floor, but stood his ground until the minotaur stood directly before him. “By your leave?” Grinnaux said, and even if Francel could believe the deferential tone was sincere, the cookie crumbs remaining in his mouth and on his lips and chin would have still given the game away.

“Safe travels,” Francel said, backing away to “politely” let his guest out of the parlor.

“My lord,” Grinnaux said, definitely insincere. As he left, a flick of his tail just artful enough to be accidental knocked a large box of (very expensive) kukuru powder bottoms-up and open down to the soft blue rug of the parlor.

 

* * *

 

On a little bedside table, overflowing these days with notes and letters and used-up quills, there was a book. It was full of fairy-stories, and thus buried and useless to its owner, now a man grown (he celebrated his twentieth nameday little more than a week ago). But it was still there, and that was about to become important.

That night—a miserable, chilly, rainy evening entirely unsuited for early autumn—Francel staggered into his bedroom with all the energy and grace of a seasick steinbock. In one hand he held a small bowl of oxtail stew (for comfort), in the other a passel of letters (the reason he needed the comfort). With a heavy sigh, he placed both at his desk, then made the grave error of sitting on his bed to better sift through the bedside table for a good quill. Because he did not find a quill—but underneath a journal, there was his favorite old book, and he was already on his bed, and he was already kicking off his shoes, and before he knew it he was flopped on his side, paging through it once again.

It was much smaller in his hands, and the pictures that once seemed to contain an entire limitless world now were bounded and quaint. But this was not all bad—it made the reading more intimate, it drew the stories closer around him as if he were lying in a warm embrace, no longer alone. _Once upon a time, there lived two sisters… Once upon a time, a husband and wife longed for a child… Once upon a time, a just and wise king called upon his three sons…_ Every few pages, the familiar phrase repeated, telling the stories of familiar faces: kings, princesses, clever youths, stalwart knights, fearsome monsters, all the people living in this book, Francel saw in the characters of his life.

The king in the book wore a crown and cape and his beard full and long—but it was easy to imagine his father there, setting tasks to his princely sons (one of the letters left on his desk was from his father: a sharply-worded order to call for a culling of the beasts around Lintelrose, that should have happened a week ago). His mother was the queen—the childless queen, not for any lack of children but for her longing, and her protectiveness (at least three letters in that packet were from her, begging her youngest child to stay in the city more, and journey out to “awful, muddy Lintelrose” less). The clever youths, well… (Emmanellain had sent a letter, promising that he had met someone he was sure, absolutely sure, would be exactly to Francel’s tastes, a gentleman who would meet even the most stringent standards nobility could set; he could introduce Francel to him, certainly, and if Francel would put in a good word for him to Laniaitte in turn…).

And then there were the monsters. There were wolves and imps, witches and dragons, and other mashed-up beasts. At every turn, they menaced the good people of the fairytale world—indeed, almost every page Francel turned to had some form of monster on it. The storybook artist, he supposed, had been very fond of drawing them. They made for more exciting pictures, he supposed—as beautiful as the rose-picking maiden was (and he was much better able to appreciate the beauty of it now), the beast in the castle remained as imposing as he remembered it. It was a pity that the monsters who could speak in Coerthas didn’t actually make his life more exciting. Or rather—when they did, it was in all the wrong ways: A wolf-lord successfully evading every attempt at contact regarding the packs of dumb ones roaming too broadly, a brace of changeling ravens taking a “scientific interest” in the skies over Ishgard and the contents of Stephanivien’s manufactory, and… Grinnaux. And that obstinate brute’s ignoring of his letters, dereliction of his obligations (you would think, Francel thought bitterly, _you would think_ anyone who talked as much about their love of the hunt as that minotaur did would take care to keep their hunting grounds free of dangerous competition), and then sheer nerve to demand an _increase_ in goods from the estate as payment for the “safekeeping” accord he wasn’t fulfilling…

“What I need,” Francel murmured to himself, rolling onto his back, “is to have a better kind of monster around."

 

* * *

 

Autumn was short, and, it seemed to everyone with an opinion, growing shorter. Frost had come twice already—lightly, yes, but more than enough to alarm farmers and soldiers alike. Both Lintelrose and the nearby fort that served as protection—the Ramswall—thus had called for more care and attention from their new lord, and he had an obligation to answer.

The rain of early autumn had intensified to frequent storms that left the roads a muddy mire. Coaches and carriages being useless, Francel had elected to just go on chocoback to the Ramswall—faster than waiting for more clement weather… and a better chance of winning at least some respect from the garrison for their never-seen-a-battle master-of-less-than-a-year. This chocobo, too, was strong and sure-footed and fast—he was confident it would be a simple matter.

As it happened, it was a simple matter of riding for his life.

At breakneck speeds, his chocobo bounded over the highlands, past stands of pines and pell-mell for thicker foliage, itself almost in a panic that Francel couldn’t stop, by reason of his own panicking—leaning almost out of the saddle and urging his bird on desperately. Behind them flew a _dragon_ —a _real_ dragon, not some harmless dumb scalekin barely more than a winged lizard. “What is a dragon _doing_ here?!” Francel babbled—terrified near out of his wits, but the chocobo couldn’t speak, and he’d really rather not be close enough to ask the dragon itself.

But the dragon _was_ drawing closer, the mighty beating of its wings growing louder and louder—it drowned out the chocobo’s harried panting, then Francel’s own voice, and its advancing shadow was like the approach of a thunderhead. And then—and then, it _roared_. A thunderclap couldn’t have been louder, or jolted more viciously through Francel’s very bones. They said—he could remember, they said that the voice of a dragon had the power of compulsion, to override the will of lesser beings, and in that moment Francel believed it utterly. For in that moment, two beings—one elezen, and one chocobo—reverted to base and primal instinct. Francel clung to his bird’s neck, and the chocobo veered of its own volition into the wood, abandoning any possibility of roads for a hiding place nothing that large could follow them to. When he dared to crack open one eye, Francel saw tree branches and trunks flying past his body, entirely too close for comfort, and the darkness of canopy cover looming ever more—but he could hear himself breathe, and hear himself think again. The wingbeats were gone, and for a moment, he was safe.

He didn’t have time to sigh in relief before the chocobo tripped and both of them lurched forward, head over heels.

The bird landed well, it rolled and found its feet and continued its fleeing, still animated by fear. Francel did not. He slammed into a tree, black stars flashing over his vision at the impact. Something cracked—what, he wasn’t sure. Everything hurt; it was beyond him to determine what hurt _most_. Still but for the shaking, feeling the world swirl around him, Francel didn’t even try to hold on to consciousness.

 

“Well… Look what the coeurl dragged in.”

That voice was the first thing Francel heard, and for a moment he thought it must have been a nightmare. And even if this was far too much pain to be a dream, it certainly couldn’t be _real_ —but then, he slowly opened his eyes, turned his head (which had no right to hurt as much as it did), and saw hooves.

_Halone must be testing me_.

“They sent you again?” He directed his tired, cross expression to where he thought (through the dark and his own vision’s current unreliability) Grinnaux’s face ought to be; Grinnaux helpfully crouched low enough that Francel could see him clearly enough to make out that unimpressed expression the minotaur so often wore among elezen.

“No one sent me, I just happened to find you. You haven’t been out all _that_ long.” He wasn’t gloating, which Francel was aware enough to find unusual.

“it’s night, though.”

“No. Just a storm,” Grinnaux said with a shrug. Francel didn’t at all share his cavalier attitude about a storm that blotted out that much sunlight, though. He tried to push himself up—tried and failed.

“That’s not any better,” Francel said, through clenched teeth and tightly controlled breathing (now he _could_ pinpoint what hurt most, and that it was his ribs that had cracked was most likely).

“You look like you need some help.” There was something highly suspicious about that tone. Francel lifted his head, watched the grin full of big white teeth split Grinnaux’s dark face. “My help.”

“I need to get to Ramswall,” Francel said, cautiously. Was Grinnaux on some kind of power trip? It wouldn’t be out of character.

“It’s too far. Storm’s going to hit before you’re halfway there. And I don’t need the headache that’d come from you dying of exposure.” He reached forwards, and took hold of Francel by the ribs, lifting him easily as he stood—careless of how Francel gasped, then cried out in pain from the rough handling. Grinnaux hauled Francel up over his shoulder—and the pain in his ribs was unbearable, Francel feared he might black out again—and started off through the wood. Through the pain, Francel was able to register one more sentence: “We’re going to my den.”

  


	2. Chapter 2

In the mountains and highlands of Coerthas, there was an underground lair, and Francel couldn’t tell anyone how he had gotten there. It was past trees, and past standing rocks—or maybe through; under ruins and over valleys, he was borne by the minotaur Grinnaux, unable to tell how far he had gone or how long the journey took. He might have fancied it to be days, for the pain (made worse by Grinnaux’s apparent failure to properly appreciate the relative fragility of elezen and transport him with care) made the times conscious seem unbearably long. And between pain, fuzzy-headedness, and the rumbling of a threatening storm… well, it would have been a wonder if the wilds appeared to him as anything other than a hostile maze, impenetrable and incomprehensible. It didn’t take long for Francel to give up trying to keep track altogether. From there, the only thing that prompted him to stir was stillness—first of the air around him, and then the surface he rested on—and then only enough to conclude that this was close enough to a bed for his purposes and to collapse into unconsciousness once more.

Francel woke again when the light was the red-gold of sunset, just bright enough, at just the right angle to rouse him. Blinking, squinting, he pushed himself up to a sitting position—then sucked in air with a wince as he realized where he must have been. Even with poor lighting, the scale made it obvious: this was a monster’s den, and he laid in a monster’s bed, and there was no sign of the monster anywhere. For a moment, all he did was stare, everything silent around him. Francel had not before given a terribly great amount of thought to what the homes of the beasts regnant were like—when he had, it had generally been to think they were probably somewhat like elezen (like the only houses he had ever seen), and perhaps something like a storybook lair, all stones and bones. He was finding out now that neither was true, and both were. The bed he sat upon now, for example—it had four corners and four posts, pillows and blankets both, but no curtains or canopy, no quilting, nor proper sheets. Instead, he laid on fur stitched together, and fleece, and whatever stuffed the pillows was fragrant and lumpy. There was no inlay or painting on the posts or headboard, but carvings of a style he did not recognize, and pieces of antler from what must have once been a truly enormous stag. And the sheer _size_ of this bed—the foot of it seemed ridiculously far beyond his toes, and to get out of it…

Gingerly, Francel laid back down, and rolled over to reach the edge of it (it seemed less strain than scooting and crawling would have been). The pain in his ribs was—it was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Constant pain, he had known; situational pain heightened by motion, he had known; but… having it hurt to _breathe_ was a new kind of misery, and one he wasn’t quite sure how to cope with, even as he delicately pushed his legs off the edge of the bed. Lowering himself to the floor, his bare feet hit cold stone, and—pain or no pain—it was time to investigate, such as it were.

It was clearly a bedroom he was in now, and thus Francel was left shy about prying into what might be found there, for surely if a being had a specific _bedroom_ , he had private things, and it would be too rude for Francel to countenance to go poking about in closets or whatnot. But there was a table (probably a little table by Grinnaux’s standards, though not by Francel’s) with something obviously for him on it: A plate, a chunk of brown bread, a tankard, an envelope and a piece of paper. A whiff of the tankard’s contents revealed them to be watered-down wine, and on the paper was scrawled just one word— _Medicine_. Skeptical, Francel carefully opened the envelope and found a light green powder. Precisely what it was composed of, he couldn’t tell—all he had to go on was Grinnaux’s word that it was what he said it was.

After a long minute, looking between the powder, the wine, the note, and the bread, Francel closed the envelope and put it aside. Not until he could ask Grinnaux what was in it, he told himself (though absently his free hand stroked his side as if in apology to himself). And besides, if the intent was to dull the pain, then a minotaur’s tankard of wine, even watered-down, still ought do that trick nicely. Carefully taking in hand both the bread and the heavy tankard—though Grinnaux would have found it lightweight—Francel padded slowly to the door, to see what else was in a monster lair, if not the monster himself.

The next room was… he supposed it must have been like a sitting room, or a parlor. It did not have bookshelves, or displays of porcelain and paintings, but there were… decorations, clearly meant to impress any visitor, not of Grinnaux’s wealth or taste, but his prowess at the hunt. Skulls and horns and racks of antlers hung on the walls, and one table held a carefully-arranged array of fangs and tusks. There were no taxidermied beasts or birds, such as might be found in some Ishgardian parlors, but rather the chairs were host to most artfully arranged full pelts, and above one stone mantel was a spray of blue feathers from some gigantic bird Francel couldn’t recognize. It was, Francel thought, as if a hunting lodge were a person’s actual, _proper_ home.

There were more key differences—the most important being outside the window. For now, Francel saw that this home wasn’t a house as he knew it—the rain-soggy grass and leaves dipping into view near the _top_ of that window showed that, as did rising plants (sedges? they looked rather like that) near the bottom of the windowpanes. It implied a house that was at least partly dug-out and underground, and not even the most audacious and eccentric of Ishgardians would keep even their hunting lodges quite like that. Chewing thoughtfully on a bite of the bread, Francel drifted closer to the window, taking in the view. Unlike the smaller bedroom window, this one wasn’t facing the setting sun, but rather accorded a view of the hillside (and for the hillside to be quite this close and falling away quite this abruptly, this room must have been entirely underground) covered in evergreen trees, and soon obscured by after-rain mist. The storm Grinnaux had assured him was coming must have come and gone while he slept—though, Francel mused as he drank the wine, the sky hinted that said storm would probably be making a return visit this evening.

The real question, though—where was, in all of this, his host? Quiet Francel may have been, but he had no illusions that he would have been quiet enough to not be heard by a beast regnant. If said beast was here, though… and it was growing more apparent that he must not have been. With lights dimmed, and the fire out underneath that great befeathered stone mantel, that Grinnaux was somewhere out in the world was the only conclusion. When would he be back? Not that Francel missed his company—just that he rather suspected he would soon be missing any person’s assistance, with the state he was in currently. And, if all the help a man who couldn’t even breathe aright now could count on came from a particularly bloodthirsty monster…

With that sobering thought—and the slow vanishing of the sunlight beneath the treetops and clouds alike—Francel returned to the bedroom, finishing the bread as he went. There was nothing to do, without the light, but wait for Grinnaux’s return—and anyhow, resting was not only like to speed the healing but be less painful overall. Draining the last of the wine (coughing only a little), he returned it to the table, next to the note and full envelope, before cautiously climbing back into bed. The sun was low enough by now that it barely shone into the room at all, soon leaving only colorless silhouettes, shapes and shadows. The most easily distinguishable of these, as Francel settled onto his back, were a pair of curved yeti tusks, mounted on the wall opposite him—big and pointed and still looking wickedly sharp, and still prompting, no matter how he tried to dispel them, worrying thoughts and memories from years ago. _Yetis don’t kill their dinner until they’re home_ …

 

* * *

 

Barely two bells later, Francel was awake once more. His sleep had been poor, and fitful—plagued by feelings of chills, and fears of tusked shadows, teeth in the dark. It was a relief to finally lurch back to the waking world, even if it was bought by a wrenchingly painful twist onto his side. Where, breathing heavily and weathering the additional pain such brought him, he could survey the shadows of Grinnaux’s room: table, taxidermy, wardrobe, wolf, and open door.

…Wolf. Real, living, white-furred wolf. Enormous and awake and _staring at him_.

Francel didn’t even realize he was the one screaming until the gigantic wolf was thumping on the mattress with its forepaws, shaking it to try and shake him breathless. And then, when it worked and his voice did turn to a sharp gasp of pain from the jostling—

“Shut up. Shut up! Gods, you sound like you’ve been stuck, not sleeping.”

“What are you?” Francel demanded when he could speak, instinctively scooting away from the beast, back to the wall. “What do you want?” Panic made his voice high, rationality compromised by the combination of surprise, pain, and recent dreaming.

“You to _shut up_ ,” He (at least, Francel thought it was a he—the voices of talking beasts were distorted, but this one’s timbre seemed masculine) repeated, turning his ears back as he rested his head on his forepaws (which were, worryingly, still on the bed, now joined by the mouth full of fangs). “And stop panicking. You might squeal like a pig, but you’re not nearly fat enough to be worth eating.”

Still breathing heavily, Francel slumped back onto the bed—in part because he _was_ breathing heavily, and that _hurt_. “Why are you here? Where’s Grinnaux?” The fact that this wolf was talking to him and not eating him would have been significantly more reassuring if he wasn’t talking about eating him.

“That’s what I want to know,” the wolf grumbled, and even though his face was inhuman, it was very possible to discern frustration in the angles of it, and see confusion in his one golden eye. “I have business with him. He’s not where he said he’d be, and he’s not here, and if you don’t know…” A wolf couldn’t rightly shrug or sigh, but his snort and tilting of head and ears sufficed well enough.

While the panic was at last leaching out of Francel, the adrenaline receding—it was being replaced by a worry gnawing in his gut. “He—mightn’t he be in trouble? Should you look for him?” The trepidation in his voice was from more than altruistic concern for Grinnaux—if the minotaur was in trouble, then so was he, injured and currently dependent as he was. And even if this wolf’s carnivorous “jokes” were about Francel being _un_ suited to making a good meal…

Another snort, this time followed by a pointed direction of his gaze and ears towards the room’s window—Francel followed the wolf’s lead, and was startled to see the wet lines and drops of rain on the glass. In retrospect, now, it made sense that houses with grass-covered sod roofs and walls—not shingle and brick—would be much quieter in the rain, but it still hadn’t occurred to Francel to consider it before. And to further drive the point home, lightning flashed and was followed a second later by thunder. “…I see.”

“The storm’s a middling bitch—not bad enough that I’d worry, but bad enough that I’d rather stay inside.” Again, the wolf made his version of a sigh-and-shrug gesture. “So. Here I am. And here I’ll stay, until he and I can have our talk. He’s a grown beast, he can take care of himself.” He yawned, precisely like a real wolf would (or, at least, precisely like the most wolfish of dogs Francel had ever seen, as most of his time around real wolves involved them being dead and stuffed to appear as fearsome as was in the taxidermist’s capability, or spotting live ones from a wary distance, where neither they nor he did anything so relaxed as yawning) before finally pulling his front half off the bed. Though, even with all four paws on the floor, his shoulders were still two hands higher than the top of the bed—the _minotaur’s_ bed—as he sauntered over to sit by the window.

The wolf-regnant now appeared to be utterly unconcerned by or with Francel, but the opposite was not true. As the beast trained its ears and good eye out the window, Francel watched him. Chewing on his lower lip, he considered what he’d been told. For a brief moment, he entertained a wild idea of conspiracy—wolf and bull, in a dangerous plot—but dismissed it with a moment’s more consideration. After all, if the matter the wolf wanted to discuss was something as _important_ as conspiracy, then by his own rationale he’d be out there looking for him, as he’d said the storm was bad enough to be sorely inconvenient but not worse than that. Most likely it was some beasts’ matter—important to the two of them personally, nothing he’d need to concern himself with at present—and the wild thought that it could have been more sinister was just his nerves, his pain, challenging his reason. But even so…

“…Ser wolf?” Francel said, a bit more hesitantly than he would’ve liked.

He flicked an ear in Francel’s direction; when that didn’t register to Francel as a response the wolf curtly prompted “Yes?”

“Have you—“ he faltered for a moment, then swallowed and tried again, “Have you a man’s shape, that you could take instead?”

This time the wolf turned to look at him, gaze long and steady and uncanny, and for just long enough for Francel to develop the suspicion that he was being mocked, before his aspect changed—wolf to man, white fur to white hair, a strong lean frame and slightly sallow skin—and his man’s face with an arching brow and smug grin that removed all doubt. “Frightened of the big bad wolf, my lord?”

Francel did not actually shrink away. Francel didn’t move at all—he didn’t need to, in order to seem to recede: the stillness of a gangly young elezen in a room of this scale, facing a being of such scale, would suffice. And from his quiet position, after a few seconds, he pursed his lips slightly and said “Only I thought that, if you did, the odor of wet dog might lessen.”

“Has it, then?” The wolf-man hadn’t moved an ilm, either.

“Enough to sleep,” Francel said, at last lying completely down—even straightening the blankets back over his chest. But even with his eyes closed, and no more speaking on the parts of either of them, sleep, for him, was a long time in coming.

 

* * *

 

What woke Francel, for the final time in that uneasy eighteen-odd bells, was a smell. Not of strange plants and strange places, not of rain or electric storm—not of wet dog—but a salty, savory smell, accompanied by a sizzle and some muffled hisses, and the fact that he was profoundly hungry. With a sigh, he opened his eyes, and braced himself against that damnedly familiar ache to sit up.

The wolf was gone. That was the first thing he noticed, and with no small amount of relief. He was alone in the room (though clearly not in the lair), but it seemed he had had another visitor while he slept—for also gone from the smallest table were the tankard, plate, and envelope from the afternoon before. A thread of guilt and regret wound its way about Francel’s gut. Likely those had been cleared away by either Grinnaux or his friend, and thus likely Grinnaux knew his offer of medicine had been declined. Yesterday—when the pain was younger, when everything was stranger and he’d not met any wolves, when he thought he’d be in more control—it had seemed prudent to be cautious. Now, however, in the position of needing to find Grinnaux in his own home, in this state, _and_ having rebuffed that offer… well. Perhaps he could hope a sunny morning improved the moods of even monsters.

Very carefully, he rolled over and off the bed, flinching each time the right-front half of his side touched anything (likely the site of the fractures, he noted absently, in the apparently-increasingly-unlikely event he would be getting treatment from someone who actually knew what they were doing). The stone floor was cold enough to make him wish for his socks back, even if they might have also made slips and slides in his current condition more likely (his socks, shoes, and coat were all that Grinnaux had removed, Francel presumed because they had been fouled enough in the fall that not even a minotaur wanted them near his bedding); as it was he just hobbled over to the warmer, rug-covered parts of the parlor outside the bedroom as swiftly as he was able.

There was a fire going in the parlor, albeit not a terribly high one—but it seemed to do its job of warming the room more nicely than Francel had expected. In the warm light of sunshine from windows and flames from the fireplace, the room seemed less severe than he had remembered it, though no less strange. Pausing for a moment to stare at a motley collection of large, weathered scales on a table (had they been there last night?), Francel turned and tilted his head, the better to discern which way was likely to lead to the room with the cooking fire in the fewest number of steps. There were three doors, other than the one he’d entered this room from—a small, tightly-shut one that he presumed most likely a closet, and two others: one on the side opposite the windowed wall, one adjacent. Reasoning that—since this was dug out of the side of a hill—a kitchen would be in need of airing out and thus windows, Francel chose the door adjacent to the windowed wall and found himself in a short hall with a downwards slope. Small windows on his right side, and small doors to his left, he followed his ears to the sound of cooking and his nose to the smell of food (whatever Grinnaux was frying, its aroma was developing surprisingly nicely). The door to the kitchen was half-open, and already priming himself to try and fight self-consciousness born of worry, Francel stepped over the threshold.

The first thing he saw was a frypan (more than large enough for him to have sat in comfortably) over a stove, with slices of browned meat (obviously just turned) losing their raw redness as he watched. Swallowing, he turned his attention from that to Grinnaux—halving huge apples and popotoes (and doing so one-handed, with a paring knife, leaning back against a corner), and though he was facing the door and clearly aware of Francel, he had not quite deigned to acknowledge him.

Not exactly a warm welcome, but then, Francel hadn’t been expecting much. “What are you cooking?” he asked, trying to balance polite and sincere interest against _not_ sounding expectant of further service.

“No one you knew,” Grinnaux said with a shrug, tossing half a bad popoto into a bin.

…Very well, then. “Thank you for the bread and wine, last night.” It was a testing statement, and so Francel fought every impulse inside him to express nerves—to hug himself, tug at his hair, or wring the hem of his shirt—as he said it.

“I did say you dying of exposure would be an inconvenience,” Grinnaux answered, still not bothering to look at Francel for more than a second as he continued preparing a meal. “Dying of starvation wouldn’t be any different.”

That was encouraging… after a fashion. “Where were you, last night?” He scratched an itch behind his heel with his other foot. “I—your absence was… notable.”

“Taking care of business.” Grinnaux chose not to slice the last of his apples, instead easily biting it in half. “Some of it yours,” he continued, a bit garbled by his full mouth. “Your household knows you’re alive. They also know you’re in my care, as you’re injured. The roads are shit, too,” he added, pushing the remaining apple half into his mouth, “so I told them you wouldn’t be going anywhere until it’s safe enough for his little lordship.” Grinnaux swallowed, smiling nastily at Francel. “So one moon, maybe three…”

A frown had grown and deepened over Francel’s face as he listened, now joined by a hot flush over his cheeks and into his ears. “It can’t be that long. It won’t be.” Had Grinnaux reported this just to his family, or—oh, gods, he didn’t want to think about how he would have phrased this to the command at the Ramswall, how pathetic he would have made Francel seem. “I must be out of here within the week.”

Grinnaux gave Francel a laugh that matched his smile in unpleasantness. “I’ll tell the mire on the roads you _must_ be on your way.” He turned to pour a fragrant brown stock into the pot he’d been tossing cut apples and popotoes into. “It’ll firm up for the Lord of Lintelrose right away.”

Angrily scowling, Francel fisted his hands in his loose cuffs, instead of continuing to fidget with them. He couldn’t afford to seem pathetic to the soldiers of the Ramswall, so— “I know among the beasts regnant, there are conjurers and healers. I know some of them fly. They’re not bound by the roads.” Grinnaux was busying himself by dropping salt, a green powder, and a couple of leafy stems into the vegetable concoction, ignoring Francel, but the elezen could see his taunting expression had gone. “If you were to call upon them, they could treat my injuries. I could leave much sooner.” Grinnaux continued to ignore Francel, fitting a lid securely onto his stewing pot. Francel pressed onwards. “A raven to heal me, a chocobo to bear me, and then I—“

“ _No_.”

He wasn’t shouting, but Grinnaux’s voice was raised—and accompanied by him kicking open his oven door, like a cranky mule. “Twice now I’ve hauled your ungrateful arse to safety—I don’t need to do a damn thing more for you!” Obviously fuming, he jerked out a (pillow-sized) loaf of bread with his bare hands, but showed no sign that the heat caused him any pain. “Would you _order_ conjury only to decline it for tasting bitter?” Grinnaux tore the loaf in half to shove the slices of meat into it—Francel parsing the confusing mixed metaphor as a reference to the medicine as the minotaur rolled the bread and meat in a cloth napkin. Guilt and a bit of shame began to contribute to the angry, embarrassed redness of his face, the trembling of his hands and knees.

“The bitterness wasn’t the problem,” Francel said, because he wasn’t sure what to say to Grinnaux’s anger and that statement had the advantage of being true.

Grinnaux kicked his oven door shut, only slightly less angrily. “That’s supposed to fix this?” He demanded.

That Francel couldn’t properly join in a proper fit of anger—that the pain in his ribs and need to keep his breathing as painless as possible kept him from shouting back—was clear in his irregularly shallow breathing. “This is fixing anything?”

If Grinnaux said anything in response—if his inhumanly-deep growl had a language other than frustration—Francel didn’t understand it. He picked up his cold, raw stewpot and his package of meat and bread and stalked out of the kitchen and out of his house entirely, pausing only to pull two baskets (one holding scones, the other more vegetables) off the table and with him as he went, rolling a ponderous round “door” closed after him. Francel was left alone and in silence, glowering at a cooling oven and bare tables, old grease starting to congeal in the pan.

 

* * *

 

Three bells later, the situation had not improved.

Grinnaux was still gone. And while that was usually the sort of development that Francel regarded as if not actively good then at least tolerable—well, this past day had been all about strange new experiences. For in leaving, Grinnaux had also made a point of taking with him all the easily-accessible food, and left Francel alone in his strange cave-lodge-house once more. And the maddening thing (the maddeningly _absurd_ thing) was how impossible such a situation was for him, he who normally had no objection to being a homebody in the slightest! In an elezen’s hunting lodge, even injured, he’d soon find himself comfortable. But in this one…

In the wake of the minotaur storming out, the first impulsive action Francel had taken was to make for the door himself, and subsequently discover that he couldn’t move it. No latch was apparent—the sheer weight was clearly sufficient security for Grinnaux’s purposes. Nor did his windows open—and though Francel briefly entertained a pleasantly vengeful fantasy of breaking out, he abandoned it as too likely to end with him cut up and in need of further humiliating help from that damn beast to be worth attempting. Besides—he didn’t know the way home. Which left him here, hungry and injured and surrounded by more food than he could ever eat _if he could reach any of it_.

That a minotaur needed a lot of feeding was something any fool who’d laid eyes on one could deduce. It was much the same for any beast regnant, and likely explained why there were so few of them in the mountains. So while Grinnaux had taken easily-accessible food when he’d left—he’d by no means taken all of it. Strings of vegetables, drying meats and linked sausages, braided herbs and hanging baskets dangled about the rafters, within easy reach of a creature some four or five fulms taller than Francel. Big, dangerously heavy jars full of preserves rested on shelves well above Francel’s head. And there was an imposing and very firmly closed door set into the interior wall, with sawdust leaking along the floor by it and a suspiciously cold surface and handles and likely each door of this probable ice chest weighed more than Francel himself, much like every other piece of enormous, effectively unmovable furniture in this godsforsaken kitchen, owned by a godsforsaken rude and selfish and capricious brute, in a godsforsaken hillside malms and malms away from reasonable, life-saving spoken civilization, and in which Francel was _stuck_ : the surest proof that if there were a soul least favored by Halone, it was his this day.

All of this was fuel for a very good fuming sulk—for Francel to dwell on feeling wounded (figuratively and literally) while establishing he couldn’t move the table on his own, to stew in his regret and embarrassment regarding the medicine while debating the likelihood of achieving more of the same by trying to climb up the shelves of jarred fruits, to stare at the icebox doors and ponder leverage—in engineering and in vengeance. But over time, pique tended to burn out without fresh affront, while hunger grew more intense in the absence of feeding. And so attempts that began half-hearted became calculating, even tactical, as he tried to work open the door to the icebox. It was too heavy for him to simply pull open with his injuries (and possibly even were he in perfect health)—tugging with all his might barely opened an ilm gap. And he wasn’t his brother, he had no advanced know-how of machines to lessen the force needed. …But the basic principles…

After a brief foray to the parlor, Francel returned to the kitchen, fireplace poker in hand. He needed both hands for it, while Grinnaux likely got by with one. But the head of it was just narrow enough, and just pointed enough, that he could wedge it in-between the doors, in that little gap. And then, if he pulled—if he pushed—if he just put all his weight on it… he could find himself flat on the floor, gasping in freshly-aggravated pain, the poker now halfway to being a crowbar.

“Damn it.” Francel groaned as he pushed himself back to his feet, and his stomach gurgled in agreement. Enough with the icebox—besides, even if he could get anything out of it, he’d have to figure out how to relight the beast-sized stove and oven. And he didn’t want meat, anyhow.

But there were some hanging baskets from the rafters, and one of those baskets appeared to have pears in it. And pears, he could eat. Absently (and futilely, by this point) dusting some dirt off his shirt, Francel cast about the room for a solution. The basket was too high to reach by jumping. Nothing stable enough to hold his weight was in the right place—and he’d tried to move furniture earlier, and knew he couldn’t do it on his own. Climbing…also not a good idea, but maybe. Or, perhaps…

With a flash of an idea, he checked a smaller dusty door near the impassably heavy door outwards—and this one, he _could_ pull open, for there was no need to heavily insulate or tightly secure a broom closet. Coughing (goodness, but it needed a good dusting), Francel reached in and carefully pulled out the first one he found. Sized for Grinnaux, it was not only heavy but far overlong for him, and awkward to use because of the balance—really, if he tried to sweep the floor with this, it’d take him forever to manage it.

Fortunately, though, it took less than two minutes of cautious swiping at the rafters, brush end held to his chest (his teeth gritted against the pain) for better balance and control, to knock the hanging pear basket askew and send them to the floor. He dropped the broom immediately once the pears fell, not caring what it clattered against, falling to his knees to grab the closest one rolling about. Too hungry to wait, he bit into it immediately, eyes closing in involuntary bliss. It was a bit underripe, and going to bruise, and it needed washing, and it was completely divine. Juice ran from both corners of Francel’s mouth—he didn’t care, it was sweet all the same. He was aware he was eating too fast to be presentable, too loud and liable to give him the hiccups, much less enjoy the taste—but how could he care, when a dozen other pears wobbled on the floor? For a moment, Francel felt richer than an Ul’dahn sultan.

And then, the door rolled open, and Grinnaux returned, staring down at Francel. The minotaur was silent, his expression unreadable. For his part, Francel met his eyes, bit off the last chunk of flesh from the pear’s core, and didn’t look away as he chewed and swallowed.

“The lord piglet of Lintelrose,” Grinnaux finally said with a sneer, putting his (apparently now empty) baskets on the table. “You’re filthy.”

There was a lot that Francel could have said to that. There was a lot he _wanted_ to say to that—that this was all Grinnaux’s fault in the first place, for running off and not providing proper care (or even understanding what proper care was, apparently). That he certainly didn’t _choose_ this condition. That Grinnaux—currently muddy-hoofed, sweaty, and otherwise unbrushed and unkempt—was the rankest hypocrite he had ever spoken to. What he chose to say, though, went as follows:

“I suppose then you’ll be lending me some clean clothes? For as you’ve said, I’m too weak and frail to go anywhere, yet leaving me untended and endangered is a headache you want to avoid,” Francel pointed out serenely. “So long as I am here, I am under your care, and your responsibility as your guest.”

As before, Grinnaux’s jeer faded to sullen silence. As before, Francel pressed his advantage. “My situation is a burden to both of us. You don’t like it any more than I do. The sooner I’m well, the sooner we get normal lives back.” Grinnaux continued staring at Francel, his hand still resting idly on the basket sides. Despite the other man’s silence, Francel sensed opportunity, and continued. “Besides, if I’m well while waiting for the roads to clear, I’m less work for you. …An asset, even, potentially.”

“You’re saying,” Grinnaux finally said, raising one eyebrow in interest, “If I call on Haumeric or Noudenet for you, it’ll be worth my while.”

“I assure you it will be,” Francel said immediately, pushing past any doubt to avoid even the appearance of equivocating. And it took work to keep doubt tamped down and free from his resolute expression as Grinnaux left the doorway and approached him where he still sat on the floor. When Grinnaux reached for him, hand open and palm up, Francel waited barely a moment before putting his hand in his.

Grinnaux took his hand then and turned it over—ran his fingertips over the palm, even lightly prodded the fleshy sides, while Francel firmly put from his mind fairy stories about breadcrumbs in the woods and gingerbread houses. “Even softer than I thought,” Grinnaux murmured, leering. “You’re a fool to think such weak hands could be useful. Still—“ He abruptly closed his hand over Francel’s, completely enveloping it, and helped pull him to his feet. Reaching over his head, Grinnaux tore a chunk of jerky from a braid of it, and handed it to Francel. “We have a deal.”

 

* * *

 

“They’ll be here tomorrow? You’re sure about that?” Francel said, hands resting on his knees as he leaned forwards.

“For the third time, yes,” Grinnaux sighed, exasperated. “And then you can stop moaning about how much it hurts.”

“Good.” Francel was perched on the edge of the bed in Grinnaux’s room, attentive to everything as he and his host worked on the terms of this new arrangement. “Now—you said you had clothes I could wear?” He was interested, despite his certainty that whatever Grinnaux offered would be both old and far, far, _far_ too large—the point wasn’t to expand his wardrobe, it was to stay warm and modest while getting his own clothes cleaned for his soon-to-come departure. To that end, as far as he was concerned, a repurposed curtain and some pins would have been sufficient by this point.

“Yeah. Should have something that fits in here,” Grinnaux said as he pulled open a drawer and began to rifle through it. After a moment, he tossed a pair of trousers towards Francel—and they were, as Francel expected, old and beaten and even ripped in some places—but they were _not_ beast-sized. Neither was the tunic that landed on his lap next—or the _dress…_

“I—What is… _how…_ ” Francel stammered in disbelief, picking up the tunic to find that it was, yes, real and solid and not a hallucination—tracing his fingers over seams and belt loops, as if it might have been some kind of cleverly-painted fabric decoy instead of the genuine article. “Where did you get these?” Complete bewilderment filled his voice and covered his face—and then Grinnaux tossed something back at him that didn’t so much fly and land on him as softly drift and then flutter down, soft and insubstantial as mist.

“Friends,” Grinnaux said, in a deliberately-playing-dumb tone Francel was, by now, very familiar with. “Friends and acquaintances.” Another thing was tossed back at him, a… Francel couldn’t identify it by name without seeing how the straps were meant to lie on a person’s body… but that was beside the point, now.

“I—this is unbelievable!” Francel threw it back at him, and promptly got a heavy (though soft) full-length robe thrown over his head for his troubles.

“You think so?” Grinnaux’s voice was clearer, and by the time Francel had pulled the robe off his reddened face he could see Grinnaux no longer had his head in a drawer but was turned around, giving him a toothy, superior smirk. “I realize this may come as a shock to a son of an Ishgardian High House, but _plenty_ of Ishgardians don’t have a taste for spoiled lordling.” The satisfaction practically dripped from his voice. “They prefer men of more substance.”

Francel’s mind stalled out, stuck like carriage wheels on a muddy slope. He knew his expression was absolutely scandalized, that he was red from eartip to eartip, and that every second this affront lasted the wider that insufferable man’s smug grin got. Grinnaux was enjoying his embarrassment, getting revenge for earlier, and damn him but he couldn’t think of a thing to say to deflate him again, particularly considering—

“Enough,” Francel finally managed to sputter. “The robe and trousers will do.” Still angry, he pushed the dress and… whatever… back towards Grinnaux. “The rest is below my station.”

Somehow, Grinnaux didn’t seem chastened by such a retort. “As your lordship says.” He was practically preening as he returned them to the drawers. “I’ll leave you to regroup.” Head held high, he left Francel with his change of clothes, gait almost more suited to a parading unicorn than anything else.

Red-faced still, Francel unbuttoned his waistcoat with shaking hands. How dare that—that _rude_ —even if he weren’t noble, to just flaunt his perceived superiority—superiority derived from base impulse, not— _ugh._ There was no justification for it, least of all that such a simple ploy might actually be effective—

“ _Agh_!” The pain from the twisting necessary to get free of a well-tailored waistcoat distracted Francel from his thoughts. By now, he had gotten… not _used_ to the baseline of pain, but accepting of it. That it hurt to breathe was, yes, monstrously unfair. But thinking that with every breath… it wasn’t something he could sustain. The pain retreated to a background position—but one whose existence reduced his patience simply by being, and that could rush to the forefront with a wrong movement.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, conjurers would come, and it would be better. Unbuttoning his shirt, Francel shrugged it off and laid it alongside the waistcoat. Barechested, he looked down at his front, now a rainbow-cloud of ugly bruising, far more unpleasant to look at than the mess that had been made of his former finery. Grimacing in disgust and looking away, he shed gaskins and pulled the old trews up his legs—too large for him, by a hair, but he drew the laces as tight as he could. The robe, anyhow, was long enough to ensure modesty, and easy enough to just pull over his head. The robe was a bit short in the arms, a bit tight for his shoulders, but otherwise it would fit fine. Except—

“What on…” There was _something_ inside the robe—something scratchy, stuck to his back—he wriggled his shoulders and it moved, but it wasn’t dislodged. Awkwardly, he tried to reach behind him, but neither the pain nor the cut of the shoulders let him get at it properly—even holding his breath to twist a bit, even trying to jump up and down to shake it loose—nothing. So… nothing for it, but: “Grinnaux? …Grinnaux?”

After a moment, the sound of his footsteps approached. “Yeah?” Grinnaux opened the door fully, looking a bit puzzled.

“There is something stuck.” Francel turned away from him, as much to hide his face as to make it easier to get at the back. “I can’t get it out.” Resolutely, he kept his voice calm and neutral. “If you would help? …Please.”

Grinnaux didn’t say anything, and it was a few seconds before he stepped forward, and Francel determinedly kept himself from imagining what he might be thinking or what kind of mocking expression he might be making. He lowered his head as Grinnaux awkwardly tugged at the nape of the robe, sliding a couple fingers in to fish the offending scratchy thing out.

The offending, scratchy… thin, lacy…

“Whoops.” Grinnaux was actually cackling as he wound it around his fingers. “Must have been left in by mis—“

“That _will do._ ” Francel said firmly, glaring into empty space ahead of him and pointedly readjusting the neck of his robe. It was, at the least, a relief that it was only Grinnaux here as well. He didn’t want to imagine what some of his _friends_ would say if they were here to see this.

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing in there.”

“Sleeping.” Francel didn’t bother rolling over to face Grinnaux, or indeed even opening his eyes. The day had been tiring enough already, he refused to argue about going to bed.

“It’s _my_ bed.” Grinnaux said, sounding rather cross. “I spent last night sleeping in the rain, don’t think you can banish me from my own damn bed.”

Francel’s response was to roll closer to the wall, freeing up more space in the center. He wound up on his side facing Grinnaux, blinking, and to his surprise, he wasn’t glowering, but giving him a curiously raised eyebrow. “…All right,” Grinnaux finally said, with a shrug. He pulled the fur blankets down enough to climb in, and settled onto his back in silence. After a moment, he glanced down at Francel—who averted his gaze, and rolled over onto his other side, back to the minotaur.

Silence. Francel fidgeted closer to the edge—Grinnaux’s sheer weight made a sizable depression in the bed, one that’d be… awkward to slide into over the night.

“Why were you even out in that kind of storm?” Francel asked, after a minute. “It wasn’t just to tell my family where I was. You have linkpearls and messengers for that.”

The question had been bothering him since that morning—Grinnaux had used it as fuel to make jokes at his expense, but he knew there was more to it than that even at the time. But he still wasn’t expecting the answer Grinnaux gave: “Dragon-hunting.”

“ _Really_?” Francel twisted to look over his shoulder, ignoring the pain from sheer surprise.

“They’ve been too active. There’re even sightings of them as far southwest as Gorgagne.” His voice was plain and matter-of-fact. “So I went hunting.” Abruptly Francel recalled the assorted scales on the table he’d seen that morning. Now it seemed clear that he had been right: They _hadn’t_ been there last night.

“To… find out more?”

“And preserve the territory.” Grinnaux shrugged, something Francel felt more than saw, in this light.

“My injury… I was thrown when my chocobo tripped. We had just outrun a dragon.”

The bed shifted—Grinnaux had turned towards Francel, obvious by how the well caused by his weight became deeper, closer to Francel, making him slide a bit closer. “That so?” He sounded curious. “Interesting. Good to know. For further hunts.”

“To preserve the holdings?” Francel asked.

“…Yeah.” The depression receded back to normal; Grinnaux had returned to his prior, neutral position on his back.

“Thank you.” Francel said, staying where he was as he shut his eyes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long for this to come out, but I hope it does not disappoint.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that is a setup for a prolonged blanket scenario, among other things. Unsure about what this thing's update schedule will be, other than "it'll exist." I'm unfamiliar with the conventions of AO3 tagging, and I hope I don't bungle them too badly. Thank you for reading.


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